Shedding tears in a shallow grave
by Electra2
Summary: Vicious reflects on certain events from his childhood, adolescence, and his rise in the Red Dragons. Chapter 4 is up finally. Please R
1. Wisdom

**Authors Note: **This isn't a new story.  I actually posted it back in January.  I had to remove the old story and put a new one up because for some reason it wouldn't update correctly.  I'd like to thank everyone for their wonderful reviews.  I really appreciate them.  Special thanks to Wickedtigerlily for all of her wonderful help.  ^_^  

Disclaimer: I don't own Vicious or any other characters from CB.

// indicates flashback

Chapter 1: Wisdom

_//"You used to enjoy this job." My words echoed in the room. He said nothing. I kept my eyes on him, waiting for his reply, or some sign that he had heard me. He pulled hard on the cigarette he was smoking and blew rings in the air. It was his third cigarette, and the thick smoke was already permeating the room. I reached over and yanked the cigarette from his mouth, crushing it out on the table._

He finally looked at me. "What the hell was that for?"

"I'm sick of that fucking smell. You were puffing on that damn thing like it was giving you life. You may not mind having lung cancer, but I don't want it."

He shrugged. "We're all going to die someday."

"Is that the way you want to go?" 

He pushed back his chair and stood up, crossing the room to the window. He ran a hand through his thick green hair. I didn't expect him to answer my question, but I was startled by what he said next.

"Do you ever wonder that about the people you've killed?"

I snorted. "No. Why would I?" He kept his eyes averted. The sun was peeping out from behind the clouds; a few rays shined into the room, illuminating his thin form. Minutes passed before he spoke again.

"I wonder if I'll go the same way someday."

"Does it matter? Whether you die an old man in your bed or a young man with a bullet in your chest, you're going to go. You said so yourself."

Do you think you'll die regretting everything that happens in your life?"

"I've never had regrets before, why start now?"

"I wonder what your thoughts are right before you die." He was talking more to himself than to me. I strummed my fingers on the table. His words were becoming more and more wandering and meaningless. Over the past few months, it seemed like he had been drifting into his own world, only letting fragments of his thoughts out. I stared into the dying fire in the hearth. I had sensed his growing discomfort with the syndicate. His edge was growing dull. It wasn't unheard of in the Red Dragon, or any syndicate for that matter. 

I stood and headed for the door. Let him keep his thoughts to himself. There was nothing worse than watching the mighty fall before your eyes. The hearth fire had burned out; all that was left was the coals, slowly growing cold. "You should rekindle that fire. It's pretty cold out there." I opened the door, letting in the crisp winter air. 

"Maybe it's a montage of all of your life events," he said, ignoring my last comment. "Maybe you wonder what you could have done differently."

I smirked. He never had been a good listener. "Keep wondering and you'll find out sooner rather than later." I stepped outside and shut the door behind me…_//_

…When someone starts asking questions about death, their life is as good as over. That's what my old man used to say. Funny how a simple phrase is remembered long after the person is forgotten. He drank himself to death before I turned ten, but I still remember his 'words of wisdom.' Wisdom, he called it. It was what he drank from the bottle. I listened, perhaps even more than I realized then. I drank in every word and stored them in my memory, even after his picture had faded. Only the sound of his voice remains. Perhaps even that will disappear one day. I can no longer envision his form or face; so I sit on the ragged sofa and listen to a shadow…

//…"Boy, get in here and let your old man talk to you!"

I closed the refrigerator. It had been empty for two days; but every day I opened it, nonetheless, hoping that, by some chance, God had taken pity on us. No such luck. We had already had our pity for that week. Old man was drinking it right now. I walked into the living room. He was a mere shadow on the sofa, no feature outlined clearly, except the bottle in his hand. He had taken the ten dollars that the neighbors had given me for food. 

"I'm hungry," I said, sitting down on the couch. 

He shoved the bottle in my direction. I turned away. "You know what I drink from this bottle? Wisdom, that's what; wisdom to help me see what's true and what's false."

I tugged at the stuffing from a couch pillow, letting him talk. It was this way every time he drank. I sat there, lounging on the couch, while he talked himself to sleep. I could easily slip away once he got going. He paid little attention to me after awhile; perhaps the person he was really trying to convince was himself. But it was the only time he ever spoke to me. So I would stay.

"Your old man isn't going to be here forever," he said. His gruff voice echoed in the nearly empty room. The only other objects, besides the sofa, were an old broken television and a table lamp. "You listen to what I tell you and you'll survive." 

That was how he always started. I curled up on the sofa and laid my head on one of the pillows, ignoring the spring that was sticking into my back. At least it was only one this time. Old man always said that if you laid a certain way, you could avoid the springs, but I figured he was so drunk that he just didn't notice them. 

"Don't trust anyone in your life, except yourself. People may smile in your face, but all the time they're twisting a knife in your back. They'll leave you out in the cold. It's the nature of people."

"What about God?" I asked.

He took another swig from the bottle. "What do you mean?"

"The neighbors, they say to trust in God no matter what. If I pray and have faith, then he'll listen."

He laughed. It was the first time I'd ever heard him laugh. It was both cynical and sorrowful, as if I had jarred some forgotten memory deep in his past. He rose from the couch and walked to the window, raising his eyes to the sky. His form was a silhouette against the sun. "I would have said the same once. I had that kind of faith when I was young and naïve. They say to talk to the heavens, tell God all of you're problems. But even God doesn't listen anymore…."//


	2. Mending Wall

  // indicates flashback

Chapter 2: Mending Wall 

I never believed him when he told me his words came from the bottle. Perhaps in a sense; the liquor gave him the motivation to speak them. But they came from somewhere deep inside. Some place he kept hidden. It was a place he would frequently visit, usually when he was sober. His mind worked against him that way, keeping him lost in the past. It was a wall he couldn't climb, a dream he couldn't shake. He was on one side and I was on the other. We communicated blindly, never really seeing or feeling. Except once, the last time we spoke…

//…"Step on the cracks, you'll break your mother's back." The young boy giggled as he hopped over the crevices in the sidewalk. I shifted the grocery bag in my hand; my stomach rumbled with hunger. The house came into view and it was all I could do to keep from running, leaving Joseph behind. "Hey Vincent, you stepped on the crack!" he cried, making his stupid game out to be a serious matter.

"Who cares! I'm starving."

"You stepped on another one. You're breaking your mother's back."

I snorted. Like it applied to me anyway. I didn't have a mother and probably never would. Joseph didn't seem to understand that. Then, of course, why would he? He had a mother, a father, food, toys, anything he wanted. He could make up senseless games as if nothing else mattered. I tightened my grip on the bag and began to walk faster; I suddenly had a burning desire to get away from him.

"Wait, Vincent! You have a father, don't you? If you step on the cracks, you'll break your father's back!"

I ignored the urge to turn around and punch him. Instead, I broke into a run, leaving him to his childish game. When I reached my house, my father was in his usual place. He held a bottle in his hand, which he was sipping slowly. I went into the kitchen and set the bag on the counter. Opening the freezer, I placed the groceries in one by one. I left out a frozen pizza for dinner and then headed back into the living room.

"I got us some stuff for dinner," I said, plopping down on the couch. "We can have pizza tonight and then tomorrow we can have—"

"Where'd you get the money?" he asked, interrupting me.

"From the neighbors. Joseph went with me to the store." I tucked my legs under me and began to twiddle my thumbs, waiting for the snide remarks. Old man wasn't too fond of the neighbors. I only hoped he would hurry it along so we could eat. 

"What did they say?"

I looked up, startled. He had never asked nor cared before, only cursed them for thinking they were better than him. "They said they would call child services soon."

He took another sip from the bottle. "I figured that. They've been threatening me for a while now."

"What?"

"They've been telling me that for a couple of weeks. I lied and told them that I had a job working at night. I guess they finally caught on." I looked at him as if I had never seen him before. He had never spoken like this. The only time he really spoke was to give me his hard-learned advice. His shadowy figure shifted restlessly. "Maybe it's about time I get a job and get myself together. What do you think?"

Old man get a job? That would be the day. I shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, I suppose we wouldn't go hungry anymore." 

He stared at the bottle in his hand, twirling it and examining it, as if it were some type of an illusion. I began to play with the stuffing in the couch, pulling it out and then pushing it back in. He set the bottle on the coffee table and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. "There has to be another way…to forget."

He had never told me much about his past. I wished I knew what he was trying to forget and why, but I didn't bother to ask. He said the same thing every time, that it wasn't important. 

"I wasn't always like this," he said softly. Funny, I couldn't imagine him any other way. "I was once a lively young man. I had faith in the world and in people." He paused for a moment, turning to look out of the window. "I could see things in color. Everything was so beautiful. Now I only see shades of gray. The world is dead to me. Cold, unforgiving, gray. I would give anything to be the way I was before." I lay back on the couch, listening intently, glad that he was finally allowing me a glimpse into his past, however brief it was. 

He leaned back on the couch, tilting his head backward. He said nothing for a long while. I lay there silently, breathing in the musty odor of the old couch. The whole house had that kind of smell. Like it had been empty for months, devoid of activity. For the most part, it had. We had nothing new, nothing special. We spent many of our days this same way. Even so, I was content. He wasn't a great man, but he was all I knew. I had nothing else to hold on to.

"Do you want to leave?" he asked, after about ten minutes or so.

"Huh?"

"Do you want to go away? To live with someone else?"

"No."

"I know I haven't been the best father. Hell, I haven't hugged you since you were three. Do you mind?"

It took me a moment to realize what he was saying. I had a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. He had never been the affectionate type. What had brought on this sudden change in him? "Maybe later," I finally replied, looking away from him.

"Yeah…later…." 

He closed his eyes. I stared at the cracked, yellowing walls, tracing the lines with my eyes. I could hear Joseph's cheerful voice in my head. "Step on a crack, break your 'father's' back. You may not have a mother, but you do have a father." I turned away from the wall and looked at his silhouetted form. Maybe I would like to hug him. His chest rose and fell with his soft breaths. He was slumbering peacefully. "Maybe later," I said to myself, drifting into sleep. \\


	3. Shedding tears in a shallow grave

// indicates flashback

Chapter 3: Shedding tears in a shallow grave

Old man used to tell me that he wouldn't be around forever. I always figured it was just more of his bottled wisdom. He never woke up that night. I don't remember when I realized that he was gone. It could have been the same night or the next day; my memory begins to blur every time I think of it. I know I went to the neighbor's house. I was calm when I told them, as if we were making light conversation. While they made all of the important calls, I sat in the living room with Joseph, while he told me about the wonders of heaven…

_//I rested my chin in my hands as he babbled about how my old man had gone to a better place. "A place with lovely streams and magnificent gardens," he said for the fifth time. "With houses as big as stars. I read it in a book. Heaven is a greater place than you could ever imagine."_

I laughed inwardly. If heaven didn't have a liquor store, I'm sure Old man wouldn't consider it a better place. I tuned him out as I stared at the swinging door to the kitchen. It was serving its purpose well; I could hear muffled voices coming from the other side, but I wasn't sure what was being said. Joseph wasn't very observant; otherwise he would have noticed that I was no longer listening. 

"Do you guys have any food?" I finally asked, interrupting him. I still hadn't eaten anything. Besides, I was curious about the topic of conversation in the kitchen. Were they talking about Old man? How he was a no good deadbeat. That was their name for him. They never called him my father. It was always 'that no good deadbeat.' I would always stand up for him. I would say he was looking for work or that he had gotten fired recently. They would pretend to believe me, but I could tell they knew the truth.

I stood up and headed toward the kitchen, leaving Joseph to muse over heaven by himself. His mother had fixed me leftovers from their dinner. We made idle conversation. They tactfully avoided the subject of my father, considering their disgust with him. However, they didn't hesitate to tell me how much better off I'd be when another family took me in. I feigned interest, but I wasn't that confident. 

The next few days were a blur, as if my vision refused to take in any surroundings. Shopping for suits, the wake, the funeral; It was like walking in a dream, wondering if anything was real. 

I stayed with the neighbors until after the funeral. Their house was like an amusement park for me. I wasn't used to having three square meals, toys, and television. The television at our house had broken several years before. It was only an ornament now, giving off the idea that somehow we were normal like everyone else. 

The neighbors kept telling me that soon I would be going to a better place. A place with other children. People would come by to look at me and maybe one would take me home. Funny that after they told me that, I had nightmares. The night after the funeral, I dreamed that I was surrounded by other children my age. We were all in cages. There were adults coming in and out, pointing and poking at us, deciding whether they wanted to take us home.

I woke up in a cold sweat. Kicking off the thick blankets, I spread myself out on the bed. A cool breeze blew through the open window. The window faced my house. As I stared at it, I could feel loneliness finally seeping into my skin. This wasn't like any other time, when Old Man disappeared for a day or two and returned with money or food. Once in a while he even brought me a present. So I didn't mind his absences all that much. This time, however, he wouldn't be returning with a present and that sly grin on his face. I sighed and turned in the other direction.

Joseph was snoring peacefully. I would never admit it to anyone, but I envied him. He had no worries, no problems. I had never seen him frown; up until now, I hadn't realized that he had no reason to. I knew I was supposed to feel better, knowing that I would go to stay with someone else, someone like Josephs family. But I only felt trapped and suffocated.

I climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the window. The chilly night air greeted me as I slipped outside. The grass was cool on my bare feet. I took my house key from around my neck and hurried up to the door. I unlocked the front door and stepped into my house. The familiar musty smell invaded my nostrils. I inhaled deeply, contentedly. Everything was as it had always been. The couch, the table, the old broken television. As I lay down on the couch, I felt the springs sticking into my back. I smiled, this was home. 

The bottle of vodka was still on the coffee table. I stared at it; I could almost hear my Old man's voice telling me that he drank wisdom from that bottle. His voice echoed in my head, soothing me to sleep.

I had another dream, this time about Old Man. He was in his coffin scratching and clawing, trying to get out. He yelled at the top of his lungs as he scratched. The constricting walls muffled his screams. His fingernails broke and his fingertips were bloody, but he kept scraping and yelling. The coffin walls began to give way and splinters of wood peeled off everywhere, covering his body. When he broke through the coffin, he clawed his way through the dirt, climbing out of the grave. 

He was a dark shadow against the night, trudging through the streets. He came to the neighbor's house and climbed through Joseph's window. He stopped over my bead. He shook me roughly with his bloody, mangled hands until I woke up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "Boy, why did you let them do that to me?" he asked wearily. 

I awoke with a start; my heart was thumping in my chest. I was still lying on the couch. My father was nowhere to be seen, but the dream was vivid in my mind. I jumped to the floor and ran outside. The cemetery was a few blocks away. I ran barefoot down the street, my feet pounding hard on the ground. I threw open the gate and made my way through the rows of graves. 

I found Old Man's grave and began tossing all of the flowers to the side. I pressed my ear to the ground, listening. I heard nothing. Maybe I was too late. I began clawing at the dirt, driven by the dream and perhaps my blind hope that we had somehow made a mistake. The dirt was still soft, so it was easy to dig through. I could feel tears streaming down my face for the first time in six years. The salty drops rolled down my cheeks, splashing into the dirt. 

I dug for almost an hour before I collapsed. My fingers were aching and bloody. My eyes hurt and I was covered in dirt. I felt pathetic. He was gone; there was nothing I could do. I wished I could bury myself and hide away from the world. I didn't want to go live with anyone else; I didn't want to live with the neighbors. I curled up in the small hole. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes; I didn't want to hold them back anymore. I let them come. My body shook as I sobbed. It was the only thing I could do now. 

The darkness was starting to fade as the first signs of dawn appeared on the horizon. The ground near my face was wet and muddy. I must've been quite a sight out there in my dirt-stained pajamas, shedding tears in a shallow grave…._ //_


	4. Thirty woolongs and a bag of fritos

  Disclaimer: I do not own Fritos. ^_^

  // indicates flashback

Chapter 4: Thirty woolongs and a bag of Fritos

     I got my wish.  I never went to live with another family.  I was sent to an orphanage, or as they say in modern terms, a group home.  I wouldn't consider it a better place; it was just another trap I had fallen into.  Three years of my life passed by in that hole.  Children came and went, as did the caretakers.  I was the only one that remained.  I kept my distance, idly watching as the time went by.  It was like watching a bad film, wondering if it would ever end.  At some point, you just have to walk out.  I did.   

Two years later I still wasn't in a better place or position.  I lived on the streets mostly, though I would occasionally stay in shelters.  I had learned to forage for food and pickpocket.  It wasn't a hard thing to pick up.  People were usually too busy trying to get away from you to notice you grabbing their wallet.  Usually, that is.  There was one guy that did notice; that was the day my life changed for the better…

            //…The winter months were cruel to the homeless.  There wasn't a day that I didn't walk down the street and see the frozen bodies of people that had made the mistake of sleeping outside in the cold.  Then again, there were a lot of people that would rather die than take charity from the government and stay in a shelter.  Most of them did die.  I'll admit that I didn't exactly love it.  The shelter was overflowing with people, a lot of them old and sick.  They were too old to work and had no family to take care of them.  It was like a convention of death; everyone waiting around to see who would die first so they could roll him onto the floor and take his cot.  It doesn't seem so cruel when you're the one stuck sleeping on the hard, cold ground.

            During the days, I would stay away from the shelter.  I would wrap myself in thick blankets and walk up and down the streets, looking for unwary pedestrians.  Most days I could grab a wallet and treat myself to a halfway decent meal.  Sometimes there was even enough to pay for a hotel room for a night or two.  I'd take a warm bed and shower over a cement-like cot any day.  But once the money ran out it was back to square one.

            That's where I was, at square one, the day I met Lawrence Leder.  My entire body ached from sleeping on the hard concrete the night before.  I had been walking around, looking for an easy target.  There weren't very many people on the street.  Most were probably at home by the warm hearth.  Memories of winter days spent huddling on the old worn couch permeated my mind.  There was something relaxing about watching the snowflakes fall gently outside of the window.  I pushed the thoughts away; now wasn't the time for sentiments.  

I noticed a man looking through magazines at a newsstand.  I looked him over for a moment.  He wore fairly nice clothing under a long leather jacket.  I could see the band of a gold wristwatch sticking out from under the sleeve.  He might not have been loaded with cash, but still it would probably be enough to buy a few decent meals.  I watched as he paid for a newspaper, observing where he placed his wallet.  He turned and left the stand.  As he drew near, I made an elaborate show of tripping and stumbling into him.  I deftly reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet.  

            Instead of shoving me away, as I expected.  He caught me in his arms and steadied me.  "Are you alright?" he asked.

            My mouth dropped open for a moment before I regained my composure.  "I'm sorry.  I'm just clumsy, I guess."  I tried to wriggle out of his grasp before my scheme fell through.  He held onto my arm.

            "Thievery requires quickness and agility," he whispered, prying the wallet from my hand.

            I stopped struggling and turned to face him.  It was one thing that he had caught me, but now he was directly insulting me.  I glared at him. "What the hell would you know about it?"

            He shrugged nonchalantly. "I've been around the block a few times."

            "You knew I was going to steal you wallet?"

            The man stuck his wallet in his coat. "I saw you watching me while I was at the newsstand.  Part of the problem is that the street's too empty."

            I crossed my arms. "It's too hard to watch people on busy streets."

            He laughed. "It's all about focus.  Listen, have you ever seen a beautiful woman in a room full of people.  There could be dozens of other people in the room, but all you see is her.  That's how you have to focus.  Even though there could be a hundred other people there, you want to see just that one person.  They should be the only person there to you."

            I snorted. "Sounds like a load of shit to me," I snapped, still a bit sore from his earlier insults.

            "It's your choice whether you want to survive or not," he replied in his nonchalant tone.  It was beginning to grate on my nerves.  He drew out his wallet again and handed me thirty woolongs.  "Here, take the day off.  Think about what I told you."  With that, he turned and walked away.

            I stared at the money in my hand.  I didn't know whether to feel relieved or upset.  I had gotten off easy considering the situation.  Still, I somehow felt low and disgusting.  I had failed miserably.  And then Mr. High-and-Mighty giving me advice and money as if I were a charity case.  _Bastard.  I crumpled the money in my hand.  I wanted to throw it in the trash.  It felt…contaminated somehow.  I couldn't bring myself to part with it.  Instead, I shoved it into my pocket and walked away._

            I never had any luxuries when I was young.  Hell, our television didn't even work; I had only a few toys, mostly from garbage dumps.  Old man used to tell me that if a man has nothing else, he has his pride.  That's the one thing no one can take from him.  Walking along the streets that day, I found that hard to believe.  I didn't try to steal from anyone else.  I wandered aimlessly.  I couldn't spend the money.  I didn't know why.  Money was money.  I felt like everyone could see right through me.  I had nothing.  My clothes were torn and filthy.  I hadn't bathed since God knows when.  I was just another bum on the streets.  

            Night fell and the air grew colder.  I didn't want to go to the shelter that night.  I was tired of living side by side with trash.  That was all we were.  The shelter might as well have been the city garbage dump.  Who the hell were they fooling?  The whole system was fucked up.  These rich bastards will donate to the god damned soup kitchen, but they won't even consider us for a job.  I snorted.  I could just picture the government meetings.  "But if we give more people jobs, the homeless shelter would be empty.  And then what would we do to make ourselves feel better?"  I laughed aloud.  Yeah, those meetings were probably a hoot.

            After moping on the corner for a while, I felt my stomach rumble with hunger.  I still hadn't eaten anything.  It was getting pretty late.  Most of the stores were probably closed.  I remembered passing a convenience store a few blocks back.  I turned and headed back, hoping to get at least a snack or two.  I was going to have to spend the damned money anyway.  The convenience store was empty and the clerk obviously didn't like the looks of me.  He kept his eyes on me as I wandered through the aisles.  The thing about being hungry is that everything looks tempting.  I grabbed a large bag of corn chips and continued looking.

            I heard the door swing open, but I didn't bother to look up until I heard someone shout "Don't Move."  I froze in place.  

            "Open the register," another man's voice said.  It sounded strangely familiar.  I leaned my head over enough to see two men dressed completely in black, wearing ski masks.  They were both holding guns pointed at the clerk.  

            _Dammit__, this is not my day, I thought.  The clerk opened the register and began taking money out.  One of the guys handed him a bag._

            "Put it in here."  It was the same familiar voice.  Where did I remember it from?  

_'Thievery requires quickness and agility.'  That jerk from earlier!  I leaned over a bit more and smirked.  __He won't think he's so smart anymore when I turn him in to the cops, I thought.__  It was then I noticed the mirror at the front of the store.  I stood back up quickly in hopes that they hadn't seen me.  In doing so, my arm brushed the shelf and knocked a bag of chips to the floor.  Both men turned.  _Shit!_ _

"Go see what that was."  

One of the men turned and came down the aisle.  I backed up until I was against the cooler.  The man stopped.  "You?  What are you doing here?"

            "Getting food," I snapped, forgetting that he was carrying a gun.  I really didn't feel like hearing any more pointers from him today.

            "Hurry up, you bastard!" the other robber shouted. 

            The man bent toward me. "Get out of here," he whispered.  

            I clung to the bag of chips in my hand.  I figured it would be the last thing on the clerk's mind right now.  I turned and headed for the door.  

            "Hey kid, where the fuck do you think you're going?"  I paused.  The burglar at the front backed up to where he could see both me and the clerk.  He nodded toward his partner.  "What the hell is he doing?  He's a witness."

            "Just let him go.  He's just a kid.  He's not going to do anything."

            "Like hell he isn't.  How would you know?  Hey kid, don't fucking move.  You, clerk, hand me the bag."  The clerk handed over the bag and stuck his hands in the air.  

            My 'friend' walked over to the camera, opened it, and took out the tape.  "Alright, let's go."

            The burglar aimed his gun and shot the clerk in the head.  An anguished scream pierced the air and he slumped over the counter; blood poured from the wound.  His eyes were lifeless as his body slid behind the counter.  I tried to turn my head from the scene, but my body was frozen.  The clerk's scream rang in my ears.  I didn't even realize that the robber had turned his gun on me until his partner began shouting.

            "No!" he stood in front of me. "Look, he's just a homeless kid."

            I felt vomit began to rise in my throat.  I kept seeing the clerk slump over on the counter.  I didn't want to end up like him, lying on the floor in a pool of blood.  There wasn't a damn thing I could think of that I had to live for except the fact that I was living.  But that was reason enough.

            "Don't shoot me," I said through gasping breaths.  I was trying not to puke all over the place. "I won't tell anyone.  I swear it."  Even as I said it, I felt like a coward.  I was begging like a god damn dog; begging these two lowlife bastards.  I chuckled to myself.  Old man had been wrong.  Pride could be stripped from you just as easy as the clothes on your back.  I could no longer hold it in.  I fell to my knees and began to vomit.  My chest heaved in and out as I took deep breaths.

            The burglar who had shot the clerk approached me. "You've got two choices," he said.  "You can come with us or I can waste you right here and now."

            His voice sounded muffled as if he were far off.  It rang in my ears.  What the hell would they do if I went with them?  Why not just let them blow my brains out?  What did I have to lose?  All I had in this world was thirty woolongs and a bag of Fritos.  All of a sudden I heard hysterical laughter.  It sounded far away as well.  Hell, maybe someone had been watching this whole time and thought this scene was rather amusing.  To anyone else, we were probably just three lowlifes.  Fuck, to us we were just three lowlifes.  When my side began aching, I realized that I was the one that had been laughing the whole time.  Yeah, I had lost it.

            I felt gentle hands lift me up and help me to my feet.  They led me out of the store into the chilly night air.  Before I knew it, I was shoved into the back seat of a car.  I looked out of the window as we pulled off.  There was still no one around.  No one cared what happened in this part of town.  The car sped up and the houses and streetlamps went by at a dizzying speed.  We rode deeper and deeper into the slums.  The houses in this area were heavy with decay.  Pieces of broken furniture and appliances littered the yards.  I was back at square one.  All these years I had tried to avoid this place and here I was again.

            My 'savior' turned around in the passenger seat.  He had taken his mask off.  It was definitely the guy from earlier, same dark hair and dark eyes.  And that same damned nonchalant attitude.

            "How do you feel?" he asked.  I leaned over and began to vomit once again.

            "Oh fuck!" I heard the other guy shout. "You nasty bastard!  You're cleaning that up!"  I leaned back in my seat and rolled down the window.  "I should have shot you," he mumbled more to himself than to me.

            "I should have puked on you," I countered.

            "What was that?"

            "I said 'I should have puked on you.'"

            "Is that so?"  He paused for a moment and then chuckled to himself.  "You didn't puke all your guts out after all, huh?"

            "What's your name?" the other guy asked.

            "Vincent."

            "I'm Lawrence Leder.  This is my brother, Marco."

            I almost laughed to myself when I realized that I hadn't known his name the entire time.  And all along I was planning to turn him in.  Maybe revenge really was wrong.  Now that I knew his damn name, I didn't even feel like ratting.  _The story of my fucking life…//_

**Authors Note:** Wow, it's been months since I posted on this story.  I had a little case of writers block and I hate trying to write when things aren't flowing.  This chapter is relatively longer than the other ones.  I don't know a lot about pick-pocketing and armed robberies.  I've seen a lot of law shows though, so I did the best I could. Lol.  If you have any pointers, feel free to share them.  I couldn't think of a title for this chapter.  I was just going to go with Thirty Woolongs, but a friend coaxed me into adding the part about Fritos.  ^_^  


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